


Snakes in a Safehouse

by Kathar



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Based on a True Story, Clint/Coulson lives!, Established Relationship, M/M, Strike Team Delta, safehouse hijinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 10:03:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kathar/pseuds/Kathar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint and Natasha had made themselves scarce, and Phil really couldn’t, if he had tried with both hands, be bothered to worry about what they were getting up to at that particular moment.</p><p>Which was a mistake, as it turned out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snakes in a Safehouse

Phil had been hip-deep in after- action reports when it happened.

By “hip deep,” he meant “propped up on the low ratty couch with his feet up and the laptop balanced on his hip.” The op had wrapped more quickly and more messily than expected. Far more messily. As at least one ryokan in the Muko Valley had melted into the ground, leaving its various guests-- and the three members of Strike Team Delta-- covered in ooze. And that had been before the guard geese showed up.

All of which Agent Phil Coulson was currently trying to describe in his best SHIELD-approved bureaucratese, while wondering if he was sure he’d gotten the feathers out of _every_ crevice. His teammates had made themselves scarce, and he really couldn’t, if he had tried with both hands, be bothered to worry about what they were getting up to at that particular moment.

Which was a mistake, as it turned out.

“NGYEARGH!” Clatter. Thump. Bang. “GAH.” 

Phil shot up, sending his laptop flying, and came down already running for the sound.

“Clint?” Phil rounded the doorway to the kitchenette, gun drawn. Clint Barton turned, panic wide on his face and one hand clutched to his heaving chest. 

“Ack!” he said. Phil swept the room rapidly-- corners empty, nothing on fire, nothing flooding, nothing being eaten away by acid, and nothing with clowns on it. Just Clint, a mixing bowl, and the carton of eggs they’d brought that afternoon to supplement the safehouse pantry. He looked back to Clint, who was wringing one hand but otherwise calming down.

“What... happened?”

“Gah, ack, yeargh,” Clint explained, then shuddered. “Gimme a moment.”

“Clint?” Natasha Romanov appeared in the kitchen window, thus nixing Phil’s dawning suspicion that she was behind Clint’s current panic. “This yours?” 

“ACK,” said Clint. 

“Is that... what _is_ that?” Phil asked her in horrified tones, since she appeared unphased by the thing dangling from her hands.

“It appears to be a snake with its head caught in a roach hotel and its body tangled in a whisk, sir.”

“Is it dead?”

“Very.”

“Was it dead a moment ago?”

“I think so. Hard to tell, given that it was sailing through the air into the backyard.”

“Damnit, Nat, put that down,” Clint managed to get out. The chest heaving, most unfortunately, diminished and he ran a hand through his hair with another shudder. “I was looking for the whisk, thought I saw it under the counter. That’s what I found when I pulled it out.”

“And then you threw it out the door?”

“It seemed like the logical response at the time.” 

Inwardly, Phil agreed with him entirely. Outwardly:

“I admit, I’m not entirely sure how that happens.”

“It appears the snake was attempting to eat the dead cockroaches in the motel, sir,” Natasha told him. It didn’t improve matters much, for either him or Clint.

“I... see. Well, please dispose of it, Agent Romanov.”

“Me, sir? Clint’s the one who flung it into the garden.” 

“Yes, well, we’ve had enough of Agent Barton behaving like a Victorian maid for one day, haven’t we?” Clint spun between the two of them, glaring at each with an offended huff.

“Well, I _never_ ,” he said, hands on hips. “Say that again and you can make your own dinner tonight.”

“If someone hadn’t flung away the whisk, I might be taking that threat more seriously, Agent,” Phil said with a grin. 

“I thought my reflexes were excellent, boss. And I think the spatula is still under the counter, as well. Wanna check? You wouldn’t want to ruin my delicate nerves, after all.”

“You know what? Takeout sounds good.” 

“Takeout and a new whisk?”

“Probably wise.”

“Who’s turn is it to go?” Clint was calming down now, but his hand was still pressed to his hips, and Phil found his gaze lingering there, where his fingers were dimpling the material of his sleep pants.

“Not it,” Natasha said, and left the window.

“I guess that’s me then, sir,” Clint said, and then: “Boss? My eyes are up here.”

Phil shifted his eyes up to Clint’s, to find he was grinning.

“Whatcha thinkin?” he asked, and Phil shook his head. It had been an exhausting op, and there hadn’t been a lot of time for just gazing. Clint caught his mood and sauntered forward a little. “It’s the maid thing, isn’t it, boss? That a kink of yours?”

“Don’t be absurd.” Phil knew he was failing to be stern, and couldn’t bring himself to care.

“Oh, come on, that doesn’t sound good?” The saunter had turned into an outright sway. “You could save me from the scary, scary snakes. Little black dress, little lace apron? Fishnets….”

“If it’s fishnets you need, Clint,” Phil said, grateful that decades of training allowed him to keep his voice even, “you can just borrow mine. Heels might not fit you though.” 

“Uh.” Clint said.

“That’s it,” Natasha said from the doorway, “I give in. I’ll go. Just… be wearing pants when I get back, please.”

“Grab a new spatula as well,” Phil told her, refusing to be embarrassed. “And maybe a fifth of bourbon. I think SHIELD owes us one.”

As Natasha slipped back out the door, throwing a look of disgust over her shoulder, Clint turned back to Phil, biting his lip in a way that was probably meant to be seductive but was probably also being used to hold back laughter.

“You have the _best_ ideas, sir.”

**Author's Note:**

> This isn't so much "based on a true story" as it IS a true story-- or so my friend swears. This started as an exercise to see if I could fictionalize her story and still do justice to it. I didn't. She's MUCH funnier. But it seemed more than appropriate to Ralkana's Clint/Coulson Lives! challenge.
> 
> I tumbl [ here](http://kat-har.tumblr.com/).


End file.
